Officer Wolfe
by Stagey
Summary: An assassin is supposed to be the hunter, or so it is thought. What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted?


**This is my first Assassin's Creed III story and I'm really satisfied with it. Please review and send me your support, it takes less than a minute and it makes me feel like I have something worth writing! There is a far more complex story than you think! **

**Sequence One**

Lloyd Peterson was an eighteen year old lieutenant in the British Army. He hailed from a wealthy military family from London and had the looks and air of a natural leader. He walked with a pompous and dignified swagger, his uniform fitting his fine form well. He had quite the common look, however, with light brown eyes, thin orderly lips. A straight and sharp nose was dotted with freckles, marring a face which was gaunt, cheekbones hollow.

His light brown hair was powdered and worn long, tied back in a neat unbraided queue. Always resting on his head was his father's tricorne hat. It was the home to many of the ribbons Lloyd's father had earned in the Seven Years War.

As of the moment, Lloyd Wolfe was bleeding his life away slowly.

It was hard to believe that just a few hours earlier, he had been strutting around Boston with his platoon.

Now he lay in a murky puddle in a cobbled alley of Boston floor, waves of substantial crimson liquid spilling from his stomach. His handsome face covered in grime and dust. It was pitch dark and no one was out. No one would find him.

Lloyd reached around for his tricorne hat which had once belonged to his father. He slowly put in on his chest, heaving heavy breaths while doing do. His energy was being sapped by his wound.

No matter. If he shall be found dead, let he be found dignified.

He closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts about the events that occurred days ago.

…

''Line hold!''

Eight men, four each separated by a small space of matter halted, the sound of their boots marching in the mud ceasing.

''Present arms!''

The sounds of muskets being presented was unanimous, as if done by one person rapidly.

''Take aim!''

The men moved their muskets ever so slightly, making a mental note on their targets.

''Fire!''

The eight men each fired their muskets, mere nanoseconds apart, all turning way their heads immediately after to avoid the exploding gunpowder.

Captain Potter walked along the line, checking each mans musket and posture,

''Very good... But we can do better.''

He whipped out his pistol and fired at the rebel prisoner, who was tied against a tree. As the rebel began to bleed out, Captain Potter motioned to the men to look at the tree which the now dead rebel was tied to. Imbedded in the tree were various punctures and grazes from missed musket balls.

''One rebel, no, one _subdued_ rebel, eight of the best soldiers in the damn world.'' Captain Potter reloaded his pistol, ''Eight of His Majesty's troops... All missed the rebel and hit the tree behind him.'' He twirled his pistol expertly around his finger, ''If this were a real battle, this atrocity of a firing line execution may have been superb,'' He pointed to a hole in the trunk of the tree, ''This may have hit the soldier next to him.'' The Captain kicked the dead rebel, as if expecting a response. When none came, he turned to the line of eight men,

''Dismissed.''

almost immediately the tension eased.

Two men moved to the dead rebel to bury the body while the other six walked back to their tents. The camp was a typical one: a few tents, two horses, a campfire low on kindling, and a skinned deer, which would be the food for the nine men in the enclosure.

Lloyd Wolfe sat down on a log and began to write in his journal. His friend, Riley Morrison took a seat next to him and began to take off his boots.

''Don't.'' Warned Scotsman James Armstrong. He patted his large ax which rested on his hip.

''Oh right,'' Mocked Riley, getting up to pick up the edges of an imaginary kilt, ''like I'm going to take a threat seriously from a barmpot wearing a dress!''

James growled, although not even the dullest man could see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, ''Watch yourself, lad. Don't want to end up on the wrong side of this now.''

Riley grinned and kicked off his boots. Almost immediately, the smell of unwashed get and toe fungus circulated through the enclosure. Everyone in the immediate vicinity pinched their noses and turned from Riley, excluding Lloyd, who merely covered his nose,

''What in God's name, Riley!'' He cried, sitting up from the log, ''At least wash up in a stream or something!''

Riley didn't need to be told twice as he dodged a sharp stone from James. He turned around and walked backwards,

''Wouldn't you all miss me?'' When no response came, he feigned heartache and put his tricorne hat on his chest, ''I couldn't bear to do such a thing!''

Lloyd snorted, forgetting that he had pinched his nose and shot up a wave of flem. He spat it out, embarrassed.

''Now THAT,'' Exclaimed Riley, tiptoeing in the direction to a nearby river, ''Is revolting!''

''Let me follow you!'' Coughed Lloyd, still struggling to maintain his dignity and laughter.

''Aye!'' Bellowed Riley in reply, as they both headed down the hill and towards the banks of the river. As they neared the banks, Riley let out a tentative sentence, ''I'm planning on transferring into the Navy.''

Lloyd stopped in his tracks.

''What?''

''Yes. My brother, Thomas, sent me a letter telling of the recent attacks on trading routes by privateers.'' Riley dipped a tentative toe into the water, slowly soaking his foot, ''Nothing serious, of course, no mercenary ship can have any chance of destroying a Man-of-War, but...''

Lloyd nodded absentmindedly. He had long since tuned out his friend once the news of his transfer had been broken. Riley had been his closest friend since his arrival in America three years ago. He was like a brother. Lloyd loved Riley, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Both would die for each other.

He watched Riley's back as he too began to wade into the stream, but he dared not venture as far as Riley. He hated deep water.

''That sounds... fascinating.'' Lloyd finally said, letting the cool water wash his feet.

Riley trudged farther into the stream and swore lightly,

''Damn! I should have taken off my coat.'' He turned around and gestured to his now soaking wet, red uniform. His white leggings were a deep gray and even more buffeted up as water filled through them.

''Oh well.'' Responded Lloyd, risking a voice crack, ''At least it's the hottest day of the goddamn year.''

Riley smirked and abruptly dived.

Lloyd's breath caught in his throat and it wasn't until his friend had emerged once more from the depths of the water did he allow himself to breathe out again.

Riley's blonde hair had been released from its braided ponytail and his bright green eyes were full of lighthearted laughter,

''Ha!'' Cried Riley, walking out of the stream slowly, his entire uniform drenched.

''Oi!'' Cried Lloyd, leaping out of the water when Riley attempted to flick some of his wetness, ''Don't!''

Riley grinned wickedly and grabbed his hat from the branch he had rested it on,

''We better be off back to camp,'' He advised, trudging up trudging up the hill.

Lloyd put back on his boots and hurried after his friend.

…

''FIRE!''

It wasn't a drill. Wasn't a firing squad preparing for an execution.

Lloyd and three others did not flinch as two men in the line ahead of them fell, musket balls jammed into their bodies. One of them twitched in agony and Lloyd felt a twinge of sympathy. There would be no treatment for them until the battle was over.

The men who fell into Lloyd's line stepped forward to take the places of those who had fallen, and those in the lines behind Lloyd moved forward to fill in the spaces of the spares.

''Line ready!'' Cried Sergeant Ashley, who walked in the middle of the lines, ''Present on the enemy!''

Lloyd readied his musket, his bayonet pointed at a specific rebel at least twenty yards ahead of him.

''Take aim! FIRE!''

Lloyd fired and quick turned his face away to avoid the hot smoke of his musket.

When the hot cloud cleared up, Lloyd had already finished reloading and was grimly happy to see the rebel he had aimed at was now lying on the bloody grass.

…

''Fifty-seven dead, forty wounded, seventeen missing.''

''And the rebels?''

''We do not know, sir. Two bodies were left on the field, but it seems like they retrieved most of their casualties.''

The General waved his hand, and Lloyd was dismissed.

As he walked out of the tent and into the camp, Lloyd saw the dead being piled into carts, no doubt identification was already taken care of. Lloyd felt his stomach grow hollow as he saw the body of his rough edged friend, James Armstrong, being hauled onto one of the carts.

A sudden wave of pain overwhelmed Lloyd's shoulder, which had been pierced by a musket ball. It had already been treated, but no doubt the recovery would take some time.

Lloyd walked solemnly through the hurried spasms of soldiers, following orders and preparing for the transportation of supplies. He stopped on top of a hill overlooking the battlefield.

They had won.

**I know, bad ending, but the next chapter is worth it! Please review and support the story if you want or can! **


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